


Mauvaise Foi

by Firebowls



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, i.e. how to lose your marbles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-04-05 08:36:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4173192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firebowls/pseuds/Firebowls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson picks some flowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mauvaise Foi

**Author's Note:**

> I am in love with this crazy little man.

Did that tree have a face?

Wilson shook his head. Night was falling fast, sending shadows sprawling along the ground, and that was exactly what he needed. He saw things in the shadows. Sometimes they were bite-y, unpleasant things that he’d rather keep contained in his nightmares, but other times they were useful things. Ideas. Recipes. So, when the shadows of the wilted flowers seemed to curl and whine like dogs, Wilson wasn’t sure whether to run or take notes. Was it a monster? Could he make it using science?

This world clearly had rules, but they weren’t…normal ones. He did know one of them: many things reflected their potential in the shadows. Trees curled and spit like flames. The shadows on chunks of gold turned like the wheels of his science machine. He’d seen outlines of canes stretching out from walruses, and ropes and opulent parasols twirling in and out of grass and he’d seen fences and hats and did that tree have a damn _face_?

 _I am not of sound mind_. The thought brought a smile to his face. That phrase had become something of a mantra to him recently, keeping him calm in the face of all things that offended logic. He’d read once that the mad did not know they were mad, so if he could admit it to himself – well, then he was fine, wasn’t he? His head might scream with ache more than his bruised fingertips, but he was still lucid. _Sound mind. An awfully rowdy body, but sound mind._

As his breathing slowed, Wilson opened his eyes to reassess the situation. It seemed the tree just… _had a face_ , and he would have to be okay with that. His head pulsed just looking at it. Holes gaped in the trunk, vacant eyes watching the ground. Wilson followed its gaze to the dead flowers blooming in the ground. Their shadows shifted in the falling sun, reaching out to him in inky tendrils, trying to teach him something. He supposed it couldn’t hurt to try. Wilson took a knee and began picking flowers.

He could grind them. Mash them up, maybe make food? Although, these weren’t regular flowers. They stayed upright even as their petals turned to parchment. And they weren’t fragile, either; Wilson had expected the flowers to flake apart on contact, but they kept their shape. He even pulled one out to the root before it snapped. And they were _heavy_. No flower was allowed to be this heavy – not by nature at least – and yet, as he piled flowers into his arms, they upset his balance.

The remaining flowers seemed to shift, and Wilson jerked. He frowned at the whirling shadows as they formed something, as they made– made another damn face. Wilson was sick of seeing eyes where they didn’t belong; there was no excuse for this brand of nonsense. It couldn’t possibly mean anything, this shadow, nothing useful for him. He could not create life out of death, even with his new knowledge.

He shuddered. The faces swirled and screamed at him, their voices trailing along the harsh winds at Wilson’s back. The sounds ghosted along the back of his neck, sounds like dying birds, like breathing too deeply, and hooks catching in skin. Black eyes bled into the ground, mouths that shouldn’t open that wide. They threatened to suck him in. Take him underground, to an indescribable and inconceivable place, a _false_ place with false gods and trees photosynthesizing in darkness.

“I am not of sound mind,” Wilson said, licking his lips. “I am not of sound mind.”

The words had little meaning to them now. Wilson was just going through the motions: tongue tucked under tooth here, a growling expression there, and with a little dab of flair you could make noises, comfortably familiar sequences of noises.

“I am not of sound mind.”

There was a knot in his head – or maybe the knot _was_ his head – but it was weighing him down all the same. Cut it out. Get it off, won’t you? It will ruin you.

“I am not of sound mind.”

The weight of the words hit him all at once, and the knot seemed to fall out of him in rags. Everything was clear, and he laughed. He laughed and laughed and laughed.

“ _Nonsense_!” He gasped between hearty chuckles, covering his stomach to ease them out. “I feel fine. Everything is _just_ fine.”

Carefully, Wilson pulled himself to his feet, the flowers cradled in his arms. For once, his head didn’t ache. He breathed in deeply, smiling at the sour taste of must and the dark world around him. A little positive thinking did wonders.


End file.
